Chapter Text
The morning Aven snapped began like any other: bitter porridge, cracked hands, cold water down his back to scrub the stench from stone floors older than any living priest. The Temple of the Seven Flames gleamed like a sanctum from the outside, but inside, Aven had come to know it as a nest of brittle smiles and quiet judgment.
Two months had passed. Two months of swallowing bitter stares, of aching muscles, and whispered insults. Aven kept his head down, his mouth shut, and his temper locked away. But even stone will crack under enough weight.
Every day followed the same rhythm. Wake before the bells. Scrub, sweep, polish. Haul buckets of sacred oil up narrow steps until his arms ached. Smile when spoken to—if spoken to at all. And try not to meet anyone's eyes too long, lest they remember he wasn’t one of them.
They called him gutter-born. Sometimes to his face.
He took it all. Because Ayla was alive. That was the bargain.
But survival wasn’t the same as peace.
It was a mild afternoon when the thread finally frayed beyond mending. The oil buckets were heavier than usual, filled to the rim with the thick, acrid substance that kept the braziers lit. Aven moved through the grand chamber with care, trying to focus only on the rhythm of his steps.
Sir Calder was already there.
The paladin was everything the others admired—noble, confident, armored. Aven had seen enough to know there was something rotten behind his polished smile. Calder had mocked the temple hands, belittled acolytes, and pushed his weight around like it came with divine blessing.
That day, he stood too close to a young priestess.
Aven didn’t know her name. She was one of many who avoided his gaze. But even from across the chamber, he could see how tense she stood, how her smile faltered when Calder spoke low into her ear.
Then Calder’s hand brushed her arm.
Aven’s bucket slipped.
It struck the floor, oil sloshing across the marble with a wet slap.
Calder turned slowly, frown deepening. “Clumsy little rat.”
Aven stared at him. “Leave her alone.”
Calder’s smile widened slightly, cruelly. “You’re in no position to give orders.”
He moved toward Aven and shoved him, sharply, with one armored hand.
Aven stumbled, caught his footing, fists clenched.
The voice in his mind stirred.
You’ve taken enough.
Calder turned his back.
Aven didn’t think. He moved forward and swung.
---
The punch landed. Calder staggered.
Gasps echoed through the hall. A priest cried out.
Calder turned, fury in his eyes. “You dare?”
He lunged.
Aven dodged. The two crashed into a wooden bench, scuffling in a whirl of limbs and short breaths. There was no grace in it—just anger, surprise, and desperation. Aven blocked, ducked, pushed, grabbed. Calder was bigger, more practiced. But Aven was faster, like a feral bobcat.
He twisted free and struck again, landing another blow.
Calder growled and returned the hit, catching Aven across the shoulder.
Aven winced but didn’t fall.
The voice in his head was screaming for blood.
They moved across the floor, knocking over a brazier that scattered sparks across the stone.
Then strong arms pulled them apart.
Several knights had intervened, dragging the two apart.
“That’s enough!” someone bellowed.
Aven panted, chest heaving.
Calder shook off his captors, face flushed. “He’ll regret this.”
“Get in line,” Aven muttered through gritted teeth.
---
The punishment came quickly.
Three days in the crypts. Cold stone, no light, no food. Silence pressed in like a second skin. Aven spent most of that time replaying the fight, unsure if he felt guilt—or grim satisfaction.
He’d defended someone. He’d stood up.
Maybe it was wrong.
Maybe it was right.
It was done.
---
When the cell door finally opened, light spilled in and made Aven squint. Two knights escorted him through the winding halls, saying nothing.
He didn’t expect what came next.
They brought him to the Archbishop.
---
Her quarters smelled of incense and old pages. Books lined the walls. A fire warmed the space. The Archbishop stood at a window, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Sit,” she said without turning.
Aven remained standing.
“You struck a paladin,” she continued.
“He deserved it.”
“You escalated it.”
“He touched her.”
The Archbishop turned slowly. Her eyes studied him.
“The priestess has made no complaint.”
“She’s afraid.”
“Likely.”
She moved to her desk and sat down.
“You could have killed him.”
“I wish I did."
She tapped a finger on the desk. “Do you know what they’re saying about you?”
“That I’m a dog in human skin?”
“Some worse.”
Aven said nothing.
She nodded. “You’re strong. Too strong to remain untrained. Too dangerous to leave unsupervised. And yet…”
She studied him again. “You intended to kill him."
“I wanted to.”
“..."
She leaned forward. “You have a choice now. Continue scrubbing floors and keeping your head down. Or train. Learn to control your strength, your instincts. Become more than what they expect you to be.”
Aven hesitated.
“Why me?”
“Because power without purpose is a threat,” she said. “But power with guidance? That’s something this world sorely lacks.”
She extended a hand.
“Report to the training yard tomorrow. I’ve already spoken with the instructors.”
Aven shook it.
And for the first time in weeks, the voice in his mind stirred, no sword to be seen to activate it.
It waited.
Watching.